


Return

by ewinfic



Series: Remote [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, BDSM, Corporal Punishment, Heavy BDSM, Multi, Paddling, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Punishment, Soulmates, Strapping, Telepathy, Threesome - F/M/M, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-18
Updated: 2015-07-18
Packaged: 2018-04-09 21:34:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4364981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ewinfic/pseuds/ewinfic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Second part of the Remote series, where Steve and Bucky are telepathic soulmates: Bucky's memories are returning, and hurting both him and Steve in the process.  Natasha has a possible solution to Bucky's discomfort, but can Steve handle the idea?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Return

Steve had suspected, based on a few words of advice from Banner, that Bucky's memories might begin to surface whether he wanted them to or not. So when it began to happen, he was able to reassure Bucky that it was normal. Unfortunately that didn't help much. Most of the memories came back with guilt, some of them with physical pain. Steve would feel a sudden impulse to come home quickly, to find Bucky curled around the toilet, face white and hair plastered to his head with sweat.

Bucky didn't have to say what the memories were; Steve could read them clearly enough on his own. But even with the link they shared, Bucky didn't like saying the memories aloud.

He spoke about them anyway. Forcing himself, as Steve were his confessor. Steve honestly hated it. He knew something about PTSD, knew that talking about it wasn't making it any better, but he could feel how desperately Bucky needed to feel that he was doing something about what was happening to him. So he listened. Then he would hold Bucky as he shuddered and sometimes cried, waiting for the memory to seem more distant, less immediate. Sometimes that took all night.

The cruelest times came when Bucky remembered something in his sleep. The memories would transfer over to Steve, waking him up, but Bucky would remain trapped in sleep, stuck in the memory until Steve managed to wake him up. Only the most severe dreams woke Steve, so by the time he was able to get Bucky up, typically the worst had already happened and Bucky woke up calling for help or relief. Often he just woke up and sat in a stupor, his knees pulled up to his chest, repeating "I'm sorry," over and over again until Steve thought he would go out of his mind listening to it.

Only once did Bucky remember something so awful that he actually managed to close his mind around it and hide it from Steve. That was the night he woke up screaming, startling Steve awake. Steve tried to figure out what was wrong, and only got a fragment of thought. _... Christ, they were just kids..._ before Bucky silenced his mouth and his mind at once and curled up on his side, shaking. Steve tried to hold him, but Bucky couldn't be touched that night. That was a bad night.

Time went on, and the memories came back more easily. Bucky grew thinner, and a look of despair began to gradually haunt his face. He could barely focus, so he couldn't work. His mind darkened until Steve barely felt comfortable in it. No amount of positivity on Steve's part could lift that black curtain entirely.

Desperate for some kind of help, Steve turned to Natasha.

"He can't keep on like this. It's like his own mind is attacking him."

"Have you talked to him about it?"

"He knows I'm worried, we're linked."

"But have you _talked_ to him about it? The link only goes so far, it doesn't help with some things. For instance, talking helps you work out your own feelings as well. Speech comes from an entirely different part of the brain than where the link is activated. You need as much help as you can get right now. I'd advise using your whole brain."

"I've heard I can only use ten percent of it anyway."

"I wish I knew who came up with that ten percent myth so I could shoot them in the mouth. It's not true. You have access to your entire brain."

"What I need is better access to _his_."

"Or perhaps better access to his body, instead."

"What do you mean?"

"... There's a way I might be able to help. Maybe."

"I'm willing to do anything at this point."

"Is he? It would involve a lot of trust on his part..."

Steve was very nervous when he got home that night; nervous that Bucky had already read the idea in his mind, and that he would hate Steve for telling Natasha their personal business. He walked in the door, and found Bucky sitting calmly in the easy chair, reading. Bucky seemed more than usually calm.

He looked up at Steve and said, "I'm willing to try it."

"You don't have to. It sounds kind of extreme."

"I know. And I know. But it's still worth a try. And you trust her, so that means I do too."

Steve wasn't sure what to say in response to that. The vagueness of the idea had suddenly hardened into a legitimate possibility.

"So how would it work?" Bucky asked.

"Well... she's agreed to be sort of on-call for the next week or two. If you hit a bad patch, she'll come over. That's how it would work."

"And does she need any..."

"I think she has everything she needs. I don't really want to know from where, but yeah."

The night arrived no more than four days later. Steve was jerked awake by an image of blood streaming down the passenger seat of a car. He turned to Bucky and tried to wake him, calling to him, shaking him. Finally Bucky woke, gasping and sitting up abruptly. He turned to Steve with horrified eyes and said, "Help."

Steve felt his heart breaking. He knew they had to do something. "I'll call Natasha. Are you ready for that?"

_I'm ready. Please, just, anything. Anything to make it go away._

Natasha arrived fifteen minutes after the call, the squeal of tires outside announcing her arrival before her sharp step in the hallway. Steve answered the door before she even knocked. "Hi." He paused. "Um."

Natasha was dressed in a leather cat suit festooned with short spikes, buckles, chains, and various tools on a thick leather belt. Her hair was bound tightly up on her head, and her boots had heels spiky enough to kill with. She looked _terrifying_. Steve wasn't sure if he was up for this, much less Bucky...

"Take me to him," she said quietly, in a voice that said argument would not be tolerated. Steve politely ushered her in and led her to the bedroom, where Bucky was still sitting, legs crossed, hands nervously clenched together. He was dressed in only his boxer briefs. Bucky gave Natasha a look of utter helplessness. It was apparently all the invitation she needed. She gave Steve a level look. "Are you going, or staying?"

"Staying," he said, hoping his voice sounded firm and decisive.

"Then listen carefully. Bucky will be in control of how much happens to him. Bucky, not, I repeat, NOT you. My job is to ensure that he's not badly injured, and I assure you that I am more than capable of doing that job. We're going to use the red light, yellow light, green light system for safety. If Bucky says status is green, then we proceed, and you sit tight and shut up. If Bucky says yellow, we take a break and you sit tight and shut up. If Bucky says red, that's when you can interfere _under my guidance_. Otherwise, you don't touch him, you don't fidget, and you keep your thoughts and feelings to yourself as much as possible. Are we absolutely clear?"

Steve sat down in the corner of the room, feeling like they had gotten way more than he had bargained for. "I... um... clear."

"Bucky, look at me. Look in my eyes. This is not a mission. This is not a sentence. If you change your mind at any time, just say 'red light' and we stop. If you need a break, say 'yellow light'. If you can go on, say 'green light'. Let's begin now. Are you ready to proceed?"

"Yes. I mean, um, green light."

"Other than those three indicators, you do not speak to me unless I ask you a direct question. Now," she said, pulling on a pair of leather gauntlets, "Let us begin."

She immobilized his hands with a pair of steel cuffs that went halfway up his forearms and were easily an inch thick. They seemed to fit snugly; she instructed Bucky to make a fist a few times with his flesh hand, evidently to check that his circulation was still good. He passed the test, and she turned him with a firm hand on his shoulder, so that he was facing the headboard of the bed, kneeling, his hands locked across his belly. "Unfortunately I can't tie you to the bed because your strength presents a problem. But this will do just fine." She took a step back, surveying him, and nodded as though pleased with the tableau. Then she stepped to the head of the bed, facing Bucky so that he could watch as she pulled out a thin object from her belt. It was a long, snake-like singletail whip. Steve sat up straighter in his chair, but said nothing.

Bucky wants this, he told himself. And he tried to keep his mind closed.

Bucky's face paled a little, but he kept himself composed as Natasha slowly moved to the foot of the bed, behind his back.

He did nothing more than gasp a little at the first lash. The sound of it made Steve jump, though; a vicious hiss in the air and a sharp _crack_ as the tip struck Bucky's back faster than sight could follow it. Natasha paused, evidently giving Bucky the benefit of allowing the pain to sink in. A slender red line rose across his shoulders.

Natasha leaned toward Bucky and took his chin in her leather-clad fingers. Her eyes were cool and appraising. "Practice round is over. Shall we continue?"

Steve winced, but Bucky barely hesitated. "Green light."

"Excellent." She moved into position again, and the whip hissed through the air a second time, a third, a fourth, a fifth. The red lines formed a criss-cross pattern across Bucky's back. He was breathing hard now, and gasping at each lash.

"How many is that, Bucky?"

"... Five."

"Count them off."

She continued whipping him, the lash seeming to land in a slightly different spot each time. Steve was a mixture of horrified and fascinated by the skill that it must take to land the blows so precisely. Bucky gasped, "Six... seven... eight! Nine! Ten!" He counted up to twenty.

Natasha finally paused. "Bucky, why am I punishing you?"

Bucky paused, seeming at a loss. "I..."

Quicker than a blink, she was in front of him, her fingers digging into his chin as she nearly pulled him off-balance. "I think you know perfectly well the answer to this question. Do not make me ask it again."

"I'm... you're punishing me because... I've done bad things."

"Correct," Natasha purred. "You've done very, very bad things, and you deserve every minute of this punishment. It's going to be long, it's going to be harsh, and you're going to accept it because you deserve it. Now what do you have to say for yourself?"

"I'm... I'm sorry."

"You aren't yet, but you will be soon. And what do you have to say to me, for going to all this trouble just to punish you? I think you owe me something."

The answer came with no hesitation. "Thank you," he said, humbly. And in that moment, Steve felt a shock of deep emotion from Bucky that said, without a doubt, that whatever was happening right now in this room was right and proper.

Steve gritted his teeth and told himself that he could bear anything for Bucky's sake.

Natasha put the whip away, and began to slowly massage Bucky's back and shoulders, rubbing her fingers deeply into the welts she had created. He groaned, but didn't complain. The next tool she took out was a flat leather paddle. At the first strike on his already raw skin, he cried out and nearly fell forward. Steve bit his lip so hard that it drew blood, but he didn't object.

"Give me the green light, Bucky."

"G... green light. Green light!"

"Good. Do not fall forward. You will take this sitting up straight, not flat on your face, because you accept your punishment. Don't you?"

"I do."

Natasha slid a fingertip along the top line of his briefs, and then abruptly yanked them down his thighs. Steve twitched in place, and she glared at him warningly. He said nothing. Natasha turned back to Bucky, and readied the paddle.

She didn't make him count blows this time, and Steve felt that was almost worse, because there was nothing to focus his mind on other than the sound of beaten flesh and the swipe of the paddle through the air and Bucky's desperate-sounding grunts as the skin on his shoulders and buttocks turned red in blocky patches.

The next tool she took from her belt seemed innocuous, a shortish strap of soft leather with a dwindling tail. Not quite a whip, not quite a strap. She showed it to Bucky and said, "Now this might hurt a little. But it's nothing more than you deserve. This time, on each strike, I want you to tell me how sorry you are for all the horrible things you have done."

She slowly moved to his back, and held the handle of the strap with one hand, the end of the tip with the other hand. She drew the tip back tightly, and then let go with a sharp motion of the handle. The resulting _CRACK_ was louder than the whip had been, and Bucky made a sound that was half gasp and half scream, trying not to fall forward.

"Bucky, what did I tell you to do?"

Steve's stomach was clenching as he watched, not knowing what to expect next. Bucky swallowed a gulp of air and found his balance, and then opened his mouth and closed it again.

Natasha said, "Bucky, I am displeased. What did I tell you to say?" She struck him again with the cruel strap, and Steve saw a bright red spot blooming where the first hit had fallen.

Bucky gasped and groaned, and finally managed to spit the words out, "I'm... s-s-sorry!"

"Say it again." _CRACK!_

"I'm s-sorry! I'm sorry!"

_CRACK!_

"I'm so sorry, God, I'm so sorry... I'm sorry..."

_CRACK!_

Steve was on the cusp of intervening when he realized that tears were streaming down Bucky's face, and not just tears of pain. He was sobbing as he said the words over and over again, the words that he surely thought and felt every single day of his life and every night in sleep and every minute and every second. _I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. I can never be sorry enough. Please, tell me there is some way to expiate this. I'm so, so sorry..._ And Steve realized that Bucky, with each apology, was begging her to keep going.

After some time with the strap, she spent some more time massaging Bucky's back, which looked like it had to be a mass of nothing but pain by now. Bruises were starting to form. He groaned as she worked over his skin with practiced hands.

Then she took out the singletail again. "Count."

Steve wondered how long Bucky could take this kind of punishment, but every time Natasha paused and looked into Bucky's eyes, he gave her the green light, and she kept going. Fifteen minutes, then twenty, then...

Suddenly something changed in Bucky. His skin flushed all over, not just where the implements had struck, and he threw his head back and closed his eyes and moaned. Steve noticed with a shock that Bucky's cock had hardened.

Natasha put down her tools. She casually slapped Bucky's ass with one gauntlet, and he made a sound that was half shriek and half sigh. His cock jumped slightly.

Steve felt a pressure behind his breath, and tried to keep still. His own cock was hardening in response to Bucky's arousal. Though their link was muted now, he could feel a little bit of what Bucky was feeling; a shockingly warm rush of pleasure and peace that thrummed all the way through his body.

Natasha slapped him again, and it was clear this time that it didn't hurt. Again, and again, she struck him, this time not seeming to elicit pain, but rather prolonging the strange state of elevation that Bucky was in. She was watching him closely now, though, and Steve realized that she was being extra cautious not to hurt Bucky. Not now, when pain felt like pleasure, and she could no longer trust his reactions to know how badly he was hurting. She stopped, and checked him over slowly, and then moved to his front.

"Is it... over?" Bucky said, his voice sounding faint and distant. He sounded disappointed.

Natasha nodded. "Yes, Bucky. You have been punished sufficiently." He sighed and his shoulders relaxed as Natasha unlocked the thick manacle on his wrists.

Natasha came to Steve and said, "You did extremely well," in a quiet voice. She leaned down and whispered in his ear. "You can go to him now. This is what I want you to say, and then this is what I want you to do..." she gave him detailed instructions, and waited to be sure that he could repeat them back to her. Bucky was still kneeling on the bed, evidently floating off in some distant wonderland.

Natasha patted Steve's shoulder. "He should be better for a while. We may need to do this again some time, but hopefully no time soon." And then she casually gathered her things and left.

Steve stood up, realizing that his muscles were practically locked in place. He stretched stiffly, and then moved to the bed, feeling strangely shy with this new side of Bucky. Steve slowly undressed, and then knelt on the bed beside Bucky, and he helped Bucky lay down on his stomach. Then Steve leaned in and petted Bucky's hair gently, and he said what Natasha had told him to say. "I want you to know just how proud I am of you right now. You were so good."

"Was I?"

"Absolutely. I love you so much, and everything is going to be okay now."

Bucky began to softly cry, but it seemed to be in relief, not the wracking sobs of earlier. Steve stroked his hair for a long time, letting him cry, and he kept repeating to Bucky over and over again how good he was, how proud Steve was of him, how much Steve loved him.

After some time passed, Bucky seemed to drift in serenity. Steve picked up the little jar of ointment that Natasha had left, and he began with extreme gentleness to rub the glossy substance over Bucky's back, shoulders, and buttocks. Bucky barely made a sound. Steve noticed how localized the bruising was; Natasha had been extremely careful to stay away from the mid-section, where she might have bruised Bucky's kidneys. Every blow had landed precisely where she had wanted it to.

Bucky seemed to wake up after a while, and he tilted himself up on his side, looking at Steve, and he smiled. "I think this is the best I've felt in seventy years."

Steve nodded, smiling, but Natasha had warned him. "You'll probably feel that way for a little while, but it will pass, so enjoy it now."

Bucky sighed. "I'm starving..."

"Then we should get you some food."

They went to the kitchen; Bucky was only slightly wobbly on his feet, and seemed to grow stronger as the minutes passed. They made enormous sandwiches and chocolate milk, just like they had as kids, and made each other laugh as they tried to talk and eat at the same time.

They went back to bed, and saw that it was 3am. "Wow," Bucky said. Then he yawned, and his face fell a little. "I think I'm... tired. No, wait. Something's wrong."

"Nothing's wrong, you're just crashing." Steve helped Bucky back into bed; suddenly Bucky's limbs seemed to have stopped working.

"What did I do? Why..."

"Hush, Bucky, everything's okay."

The pain seemed to hit Bucky all at once, and he gasped and buried his head in the pillow. "Christ!"

"Shhhhh. Just rest."

"But... something is wrong!"

"Nothing is wrong, your body is just exhausted. Don't think. Just rest." Steve kept talking to Bucky quietly, and then he slowly, carefully let their link slide back into place. He felt the strange state of painful limbo Bucky was in, _discomfort-sorrow-bewilderment-loss..._

_I love you. I've never loved anybody the way I love you. You are my heart._

_Am I?_

_Absolutely. Now go to sleep, and this time sleep soundly._

_... alright._

Bucky fell asleep with his head pillowed on Steve's chest, the plates of metal on his arm catching Steve's chest hair occasionally and pulling it. Steve didn't complain, he didn't feel like sleeping anyway. This was enough, to lay quietly and feel Bucky breathing peacefully against him. It was enough to feel the peace in Bucky's mind.


End file.
